


Resolution

by akane42me



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-17 21:36:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2323976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akane42me/pseuds/akane42me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance encounter on a winter’s night reveals an unexpected resemblance between a lowly Thrush associate and an eager U.N.C.L.E. employee who dreams of being a field agent. </p>
<p>A series of events are set in motion with far reaching consequences and a dangerous plan to strike Thrush at its heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resolution

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elmey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elmey/gifts).



> Cover art by open_channel_d

****

 

**Resolution**

_I threw a pebble in a brook_

_And watched the ripples run away_

_And they never made a sound._

\- Paul Simon

**New York City February 1966**

Alexander Waverly would be late for dinner at best.  Odds were he’d be home much later.  Something had come up.  He knew his wife was irritated, although she’d assured him she was not.  She’d sighed over the wire.  No worries, dear, the roast would make lovely sandwiches for tomorrow. 

He hung up the phone.  He’d better not be late for any more dinners for a good while if he could help it.  It was worse than facing U.N.C.L.E.’s Oversight Board.

A grey file folder lay before him upon his desk.  His secretary had delivered it just as he was taking his leave for the day.  He’d already had his woolen scarf looped around his neck, his hat in hand.

He frowned.  Like his wife, he was irritated.  The cause was not the ruined dinner, for that was commonplace, but the folder itself.  The routing slip was stapled, _not clipped_ , to the folder.  Staples left holes.  Waverly did not allow holes.  Two staples had been employed where one would suffice.   He lifted the routing slip.  His frown deepened.  The folder was defaced by a series of hand-drawn arrows aimed at the center of the ‘Top Priority’ stamp.  A scrawled message beneath the U.N.C.L.E. logo proclaimed, ‘Attention!  For Mr. Waverly’s Eyes Only!’      

_Blast it, a perfectly good folder, ruined.  I should charge it against the fool’s pay packet._   Waverly glanced again at the routing slip.  The sender was a Robert Furst, an underling from the Personnel arm of Section VI. 

The folder contained a single photograph. 

Waverly reached for his tea.   It was cold, the essential oils congealed on the surface – a most unappetizing state of affairs.  His pipe had gone fatally cold as well.  More from habit than hope, he gave it a fruitless puff and dropped it in the ashtray.  He tapped his fingers on the folder.  He buzzed his secretary.

“Miss—, where is that fellow?”

He’d not finished speaking when the doors to his office opened, and Heather McNabb ushered in a smallish, ginger haired, eager-faced young man who clutched a file folder to his chest.   

_Another file folder._

“Mister Furst, sir,” said Miss McNab, propelling him toward Waverly’s desk.  She took one look at the displeasure on Waverly’s face and abandoned Furst without another word.

The door had not fully closed before Waverly pushed the photo toward Furst and demanded, “What is the meaning of this?”

Stepping closer, Furst bent over the snapshot and broke into a grin.  “This, sir, is not who you think it is,” he said.  “And _that_ ,” he said, placing his forefinger at a point on the photo, “is why I put it in a Top Priority folder.”

Waverly ignored the photo – that of an owlish thirty-something man with black hair and black horn rimmed glasses emerging from a movie theatre with a blonde woman. 

“I’ve already managed to work it out, no thanks to you.  Where did you get this?”     

“You’ll never guess!”  Furst fairly danced with anticipation.

With impatience, Waverly said, “I’m not in the mood for guessing games.  How did you acquire this photo?”

“I took it myself, sir, last night, at the New Yorker!   And he didn’t know a thing!  And after I took it, I –”

“Mr. –”

“Furst, sir.”

Waverly turned the photo face down.  “Start at the beginning.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Furst, and gathered his thoughts.  “Right.  Well, you see, sir, last week was my birthday, and my mother, you know, she’s all alone now that my father’s gone, she called me to say she baked me a birthday cake, so I should come over for a visit.  I did, and she had a new camera for a birthday present for me.  So I was thinking about how I saw in the paper how Woody Allen and all those famous types –”  

“Furst.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Let’s begin at the theatre, why don’t we?”

Furst paused.  “I’m sorry, sir.  I guess I’m a little excited.” 

_An understatement_.

“Well, sir, I went to the New Yorker to try to get some celebrity photos.  He was in line at the ticket booth.  I thought it was –” 

“George Dennell.”  

“You got that right!  That’s why I went up to him in the first place!  I poked him on the shoulder, just like this!”  He reached across the desk and jabbed Waverly’s shoulder. 

Waverly stiffened.  “Really, Furst,” he said, offended.   

“Yes, really!  I say to him, ‘Hi, stranger!’   Well, he looks me over and says, ‘Are you talking to me?’  I swear to God he’s a dead ringer, but I realize I’ve got the wrong guy, and I’m getting ready to apologize, and that’s when I see it.  Right there!”

Furst’s forefinger zoomed toward Waverly’s lapel.  Waverly backed his chair beyond Furst’s reach. 

“I just about dropped my teeth!” said Furst, unfazed.  “I’m not even thinking.  I just grab his hand and pump it, like I’m glad to see him, and say, “Alan, how the Sam Hill are you?”  

“Who is Alan?”

“No one, sir!  I made it up!  You see, I was thinking, if I called him the wrong name, I could trick him into giving me his name!”

“And did you succeed?”

“Oh, man, did I ever!” said Furst.  Waverly frowned. 

“I mean, I got his name, but that comes later.  Like I was saying—” 

Waverly frowned again and put a hand to his forehead.

Furst plowed on.  “I say to him, ‘Remember me?  I’m Robert!  From Holy Trinity!’”  Furst shook his head.  “But he pulls his hand away and says, ‘You’ve got the wrong guy,’ and turns around.  They get their tickets and go in to the show.” 

Furst made a conspiratorial face. “Well, the camera’s hanging right there around my neck, you know?  In case Woody Allen – You okay, sir?”

Waverly realized he was still rubbing his forehead.  He lowered his hand to his desk. “Just get to it, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir.  I buy a ticket and follow them in, so I can keep an eye on them.  Then I leave early and hang around the staircase that goes up to the balcony.  They come strolling out after the show, and I have the lens all focused just right, and clickety-click!” 

“And you say he never knew a thing?” Waverly asked, looking down, polishing an invisible spot on his desk. 

Furst shook his head in an emphatic negative.  “He never knew a thing.  It was real pavement artist stuff, you know?  Well, strictly speaking, I wasn’t on the _pavement_ , I was behind a _pillar_ , and just like that, I got the picture!  He didn’t have a clue.  They walked right past me!”

_He didn’t have a clue_.

Waverly leaned back in his chair and watched Furst’s outsized front teeth as he chattered on. 

"So I follow them to their car, and—”

_Red squirrel._  

“—would you believe my luck, I’m parked just a little further down from them!  So I jump in my car, and we go all the way down Broadway, and I stick with them into Brooklyn, real wheel artist like, you know, sir?”

Waverly straightened.  “You followed them?”

“I did!  Like I said, can you believe my luck?”

A scowl growing on his face, Waverly turned away from Furst. 

_Of all the idiotic –_

_“_ So they pull up to an apartment building and he drops her off.  Well, first they, uh –”

Waverly swiveled back to Furst, whose face had gone pink.  “They what?”

“They, uh, parked for a while.”  Furst cleared his throat.  “But the main thing is, he went home after that, and I stayed in my car all night, sir, outside his place, and I followed him again this morning!” 

The vein in Waverly’s forehead began to throb. 

Furst thrust the folder he’d been clutching into Waverly’s hands.  “It’s all in here in my report!  I’ve been a real burrower today, sir!  Here, let me—” He leaned across Waverly’s desk and tried to take the folder back.  Waverly jerked it away. 

“I just want to show you –”  

“Sit down.”  

Under Waverly’s glare, Furst retreated.  

“You should have brought the photo to me immediately last night,” said Waverly.

“It wasn’t developed –”

“The _film, then_ !  Of _course_ it wasn’t –”

“But I sent it to you as soon as the photo lab—” 

Waverly snapped the folder open. 

“You have no business taking on an unknown…”  His voice trailed away, his displeasure growing as he scanned.  “Name, place of employment— how _did_ you obtain his name?”

“Well, uh,” Furst hesitated.  “There’s this girl I know, a secretary in Intelligence.  She sort of—”

Waverly paused, page held in mid-air.  “What is her name?”

“Oh, no, sir!  I promised her—”

“Her name.”  Waverly picked up a pen.

“Rita Shea.”  Waverly made a notation in the margin of Furst’s report.  Furst added, “E – A.  Not A-Y.   It’s foreign.  German.  Or maybe Canadian.” 

Waverly made another notation and shot Furst a look of dissatisfaction.  

“But, sir!  We have his name and address!  And where he works!  He’s a first rate doppelganger, sir!  It’s pure gold!” 

“Calm down,” said Waverly.  “You sound like that MI5 fellow.  Turned to writing, hanky-twisting spies lost in the cold or some such malarky.”  

“What?  ‘The Spy Who Came in From the Cold?’  That’s—”

“Delusional drivel.” 

Furst turned red-faced.  “He’s my favorite author.”

Waverly shook his head.

I’m sorry, sir.  I thought I was really on to something.  I was thinking, we could —”

“ _You_ thought?  You’re running Operations, now?  Meddling in Intelligence wasn’t enough?”

“No, sir, I meant _you_ , I was thinking, you could —”

Waverly harrumphed and tossed Furst’s report to the side.  “This man is nothing more than a dogsbody.  Sorts paperclips.  Licks stamps.”

Furst’s face fell. 

“You mustn’t let your imagination run away with you,” said Waverly.  “This isn’t a dime novel with double agents infiltrating the enemy camp at the snap of a finger.  You’re lucky he didn’t catch you playing at spies and summon the police.”  Waverly rose and pushed a button on the console.  “Or worse.  He might have alerted his superiors.”

Furst blanched.  Behind him, the silver grey doors slid open.  Waverly circled his desk, caught Furst by the elbow and shepherded him to the door.

“No more amateur skullduggery.  Leave these matters to Section Four.  Well then. Good night.” 

“Good night, sir.”

“Oh, and Furst?”

“Yes, sir?”

“If you use Intelligence resources again without authorization, you’ll be fired.”

Waverly watched the doors close.  He returned to his console and buzzed his secretary. 

“That will be all for today, Miss McNabb.  Thank you.”  He lifted his telephone receiver and jabbed at the console button required to bypass Communications.  He pressed another button to secure an encrypted line and dialed fourteen digits.  He listened, while somewhere, in a place he dared not think about too much, a phone rang. 

Shortly after midnight, Waverly placed a new folder alongside Furst’s.  It contained the draft of a plan.  A plan written with a combination of cautious hope and, he had to admit, a flutter of excitement.  A last pipe before home was in order, he decided, reaching for his tobacco humidor.  He prepared his pipe and struck the match.  As he puffed, he thought about the possibilities.  

An idea: tinder and spark. It fluttered under his mind’s careful ministrations, and from it emerged a whisper of smoke, a tiny flame.  He dared not blow on it very hard, not right off.  But, he thought, if he fanned it just right, he could set their enemy’s camp ablaze.  With luck, he would burn it to ashes.  _Waverly,_ you’re _beginning to sound like that MI5 fellow yourself._  He allowed himself a faint smile.

He pulled at the pipe.  His mind drifted. He blinked and saw that he’d plucked two wooden matchsticks from the box and had been absently rolling them between his thumb and fingers.  He set his pipe down, laid the matches side by side on the desk and studied them.  They were identical, unless one looked closely.  With a forefinger, he pushed one matchstick until it fell over the edge of the desk.

He locked the folders in his desk and went home.

\----

  

Waverly preceded Solo to the console and handed him an enlargement of the photo taken by Furst.  Solo glanced at it, and then at Waverly, with a barely disguised ‘so-what’ expression.  Waverly put his finger on the spot Furst had pointed out: the man’s right lapel. 

"There, Mr. Solo,” said Waverly.

Solo squinted.  The black and white enameled lapel pin, although blurred, was instantly recognizable: the Thrush emblem.  Solo’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. Waverly passed Furst’s report to Solo.

"His name, Mr. Solo, is Sam Mueller.  A Thrush office clerk.”

“He and George Dennell could be twins,” said Solo.

“Doppelgangers,” said Waverly, recalling Furst’s enthusiastic comment.

Solo glanced at the report heading.  “Who’s Robert Furst?  I don’t recognize the name.”

“Lower-rung Personnel.  Business degree damp around the edges.  A rather agitated fellow with a half-witted notion of spy craft.”  Waverly shook his head.  “Half-wit or not, through a combination of dumb luck and quick wit, he’s managed to land us a golden opportunity.  Pure gold.”

Solo scanned Furst’s report.  “Has this been confirmed?”

Waverly pressed a button on the console, and a projection screen descended from the ceiling along the far wall.  He pressed another button, and behind them, a recessed projector hummed to life.  Another click and the photo Furst had taken at the theatre flashed onto the screen.

“Beyond doubt.  These photos are from Intelligence.  Taken yesterday.” 

Waverly displayed a sequence of photos: Mueller leaving his apartment, entering his car, and driving off.  Another series had been taken through a chain-link fence:  a gated entrance to a fenced-in parking lot and warehouse, a security booth, Mueller at the gate, arm thrust out the car window, ID in hand.  Mueller parking, exiting his car, and entering the warehouse via a service door alongside two loading docks.  The loading docks, empty.  The sequence repeated in reverse as Mueller left work.  A final click and the initial photo of Muller reappeared.

“What gets loaded on the loading dock?”  Solo asked.

“Nothing.  But two days from now, on Friday afternoon, a Thrush courier truck will arrive at the service door, collect a number of sealed cartons and deliver them to the Downtown Brooklyn Postal Station.  The cartons contain payroll checks.  That warehouse, Mr. Solo, is a front for the payroll processing operation of Thrush’s Eastern United States Region.  Sam Mueller boxes those checks.” 

“So we’re going to nab Thrush’s payroll?” 

“Not per se.”  Waverly unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and extracted a folder.  From it, he withdrew the plan for the action to be taken in the matter of Sam Mueller and handed it to Solo.  

“So we’re not going to steal the payroll,” said Solo, reading.  “We’re going to – _photograph it?_ ”

Waverly reached for his pipe, polishing its bowl as he explained his plan.  “Thrush Central may be mobile, but its worker ants are not.  They are rooted to the ground in which they are burrowed.  Mueller sorts and delivers mail and computer reports throughout the building.  One of the reports - a payroll audit report - lists the names and addresses printed on the outer check stock.  U.N.C.L.E. intends to follow those addresses and empty the burrows.”

“That’s a lot of ants.”

“There’s more.”  Waverly held up his pipe and smiled at it.  “A one-two punch, one might say.”  He nodded at the paper in Solo’s hands, making a rolling gesture with his pipe.

Solo flipped the page over, read the first paragraph and stopped, astonished.  He glanced at Waverly.

“Is this –”

Waverly looked like the cat that has discovered the key to the canary’s cage.  “The Treasurer’s Banking Reconciliation Audit.  Banks and accounts from which the payroll is drawn.  Those accounts are fed from other sources.  Thrush coffers.”  He stood up, strolled to his windows, and peered at the sky.  “Federal and International banking authorities are preparing warrants and seizure orders.” 

“How did we learn about the payroll facility?”

“I made a phone call.  To a feathered friend.” 

“Who—”

Waverly turned to Solo.  “A caged bird.  Singing for his freedom.”  At Solo’s open-mouthed reaction, he paused.  “How I managed to clip his wings is a story for another day.  He’s informed us that the processing center is moved each month.  It’s pure luck we learned its location, thanks to Mr. Furst.  Mueller may be a lowly clerk, but he's sitting on a gold mine, and I intend to have it.  We’ll pick Mueller up and make the switch."   

“Have you spoken to George?”

“Mr. Dennell is willing.”  Waverly returned to his desk and took the papers from Solo.  “Almost too willing.  That affair with the rings has filled his head with –”  He shook his head.  “He must be able to play the role of Mueller.  He’s got to get into that facility as if it’s just another day in Mueller’s life, photograph the reports, and leave when Mueller's day is done.  Thrush won’t discover Muller’s absence until Monday.  When it will be too late to stop us.” 

“Can’t George just steal the reports and leave?”

"They would be missed.  And so would Mueller, if he left his work undone and simply disappeared.”  Leafing through the folder’s contents, Waverly returned to his plan.  “My source has given us the overview of Mueller's duties.  Mueller, of course, will give us the details."

"Of course."

Turning to the projection screen, Solo studied the all-too familiar face in Furst’s photo. 

“What do you intend to do with Mueller?”  

“We’ll keep him until the dust settles.  He’ll find a new life somewhere, with our assistance.”

“He’s not going to know what hit him.  He’s just a mail clerk.”

“Don’t feel too sorry for the fellow, Mr. Solo.  He is Thrush.”  

Solo turned to the screen.  “Two days isn’t much time."  He turned to Waverly.  “Illya could –”

“Mr. Dennell is the spitting image of Mueller.  The people in that facility know Mueller.  Mr. Kuryakin may be a master of disguise, but even he wouldn’t fool them.  It’s Mr. Dennell or no one.” 

“George isn’t a field agent.  If he gets caught…”  The projector hummed in the silence.

“He knows the risk,” came the iron reply.  “He’s already working with Mr. Kuryakin and Dr. Simpson.  Join them.  See what you can do to help.” 

Waverly watched Solo’s back disappear through the sliding doors and shifted his attention to Mueller’s image.  If Dennell failed — _if he gets caught_ — 

He frowned and snapped off the projector.  The screen went blank.  

\---- 

 

Solo stepped into the lab.  Dennell was hunched over a worktable.  He tapped Dennell on the shoulder.     

“Napoleon!  When did you come in?  Sorry, I was lost in thought, there.” 

“Where is everybody?”  Solo glanced at the computer printout lying on the table, and then bent to take a closer look at the wrist watch on Dennell’s arm.  “I see you’re already learning to work the camera.  How’s it going?”  

“Coffee.”

“Coffee?”  Solo broke off his inspection of the watch and looked at Dennell.   

“They went to get some coffee.  And the training’s going great.  Fantastic.  Super.  Really.” 

_Really?_  Solo ruffled the report’s fanfold edge and opened it.  Watched Dennell out of the corner of his eye.  “You seem a little jumpy.  Everything okay?” 

“Oh, sure.  I guess I’m just a little excited.  It’s –” Dennell put a finger on the bridge of his glasses, pushing them higher on his nose.  “Exciting.”

Solo drew a black metal stool from beneath the table and sat beside Dennell.  “George, you know this is going to be dangerous, right?  If you want excitement, go to Coney Island.”

“You know what?”  Dennell paused.  He sat up straight, then said in a determined tone, “I still think I’d make a good field agent.”

“George, come on.  You’re our best Security man.  Surely you don’t –”

Dennell put his hand on Solo’s arm.  “Napoleon, wait, hear me out, okay?  I know it’s dangerous.  Ever since that business with Carla, I couldn’t wait to help you guys again.”  He looked down, rubbed his index finger across the watch’s face.  “So when Mr. Waverly pulled me in on this Mueller thing, I jumped at the chance.” 

He glanced up, saw Solo’s raised eyebrows and gave him a half-embarrassed smile.  “Mr. Waverly told me not to get so wound up.”  He lifted his arm with the watch.  “Ha.  Wound up.”  He stood and extended his hand to Solo, who rose and took it.  As they shook hands, Dennell gave Solo a mischievous grin.  “The name’s Mueller.  Sam Mueller.  Get it?  Like –” 

“Yes, I get it.”  _Something about the shine in Dennell’s eyes._   “But seriously, George, it isn’t –” 

The laboratory doors slid open.  Donald Simpson and Illya Kuryakin bustled in, all business, barely greeting Solo as they joined Dennell at the worktable.  In unison, the three men turned their backs on Solo and went to work.  Kuryakin flipped the report closed.  Simpson picked up a clipboard, pulled a stopwatch from his pocket and said, “Begin.” 

Dennell slid the face of the wristwatch around to the underside of his wrist, positioned the report, and pressed the wristwatch’s stem.  _Click._ He turned the page and photographed the next two pages.  He worked in silence, pausing with each turn of the page to recheck his position.  _Click.  Click._    

Solo watched for a few minutes.  What he wanted to say to Dennell would have to wait.

\----

 

They’d lain in wait the evening before inside Sam Mueller’s home.  Mueller never knew what hit him.  The U.N.C.L.E. interrogators had gotten everything Dennell needed to know.   

In a short while, Dennell would have to leave for the warehouse.  Solo watched him flip through the practice reports to photograph the pages one last time.  When he finished, he glanced up at Donald Simpson, who smiled and gave him a thumbs up.  Dennell did not return the gesture.  Gone was the man with the charged grin.  He turned to the test keypad and tapped in the computer room’s access code with the practiced moves of an employee who no longer thinks about the sequence, then scanned the dossier with his instructions.  He pulled Mueller’s Thrush ID from his pocket, looked at it with an expressionless face and re-pocketed it.  

“How’s he doing?”  Kuryakin spoke behind Solo.  Dennell had the watch off and was fiddling with it.

“As good as he’s ever going to be,” said Solo as the training room doors slid open.  Dennell walked out, head bent, muttering to himself.

“Hello, Sam,” said Solo.  

“Do you guys have to call me Sam every minute of every day?  I think I’m getting a split personality.”   

“You can only have one for this mission,” said Kuryakin.  “And it’s not George Dennell.  You can’t think about who you _are_.  You have to be the person you’re impersonating.  Your name is Sam Mueller.”  

A disturbing movie ran through Solo’s mind: ‘Sam’ failing to respond to a co-worker’s greeting.  ‘Sam’ caught off guard by a jangling telephone, uttering his real name into the receiver.  ‘Sam’ held in a Thrush interrogation room.

It was as if Dennell could read Solo’s mind.  “I’ll be fine.  I just –” Dennell shook his head.   

“Come on, Sam.  If something’s wrong, now’s the time to tell us.”

“I’m sorry, Napoleon.  I don’t know how you guys manage to keep your cool.  I keep thinking about getting caught.”

Kuryakin said, “You can’t think about getting caught.” 

Dennell turned to Solo.  “I didn’t tell you everything in the lab yesterday, Napoleon.  Remember how I shot my big mouth off to Mr. Waverly after we got Carla?  ‘Next time you’re in a tight spot, you can call on me.’”  He shook his head.  “What a windbag.  The truth is, when I was in that Thrush apartment, I was shaking like a leaf on the inside.  And now, all I can think of is how scared I was.  Some cool spy _I_ am.” 

“A _cool spy_?  You’re not trying to –” Kuryakin, incredulous.

“No, no.”  Dennell cut Kuryakin off.  “I admit, I thought I was pretty damned cool then, but I get it – that’s not what it’s all about.”

“Well, what _is_ it all about, George?”  Kuryakin prodded.  “Why are you doing this?”    

“Because – I have to _help_.  Get these guys.”  Dennell looked down.  “I guess I’ve got a case of last-minute jitters.  Sorry.”

“You know, George, there’s no shame in backing out.”  Solo kept his tone noncommittal.  He glanced at Kuryakin, who had gone still.  

Dennell shook his head.  “I’m not backing out.  I want to do this.  I was just thinking about getting caught.”

Solo said, “And you know what to do if you’re caught.”

Dennell patted his suit coat pocket.  “I have it ready, just like Illya showed me.”  He checked his watch.  “Well, I’d better shove off.”  He turned to leave, and then stopped.  “Thanks, guys.  See you later.”  He took a deep breath, flashed a wide smile, and walked away.

\----

At the security gate, his stomach in his throat, Dennell lowered the driver’s window and held out Mueller’s identification badge, but the guard was already waving him through.  He sighed in relief and drove into the parking lot.  He parked, locked up, and entered the building. 

Inside, he counted doors as he passed them, turned each corner feeling like he was stepping off a cliff.  A woman smiled and greeted him from an open doorway.  He said, “Good morning,” thinking he was going to throw up.  

He arrived at Sam Mueller’s office door and entered.  He closed the door, went to the desk, sank into the chair and looked around.  The place was more of a workroom than an office.  Most of the space was taken up by a massive worktable in the center of the room.  A metal delivery cart was parked on one end.  At the other end stood a canvas bin containing the daily mail from the post office.  

Mueller’s day began with the delivery of the mail.  Dennell dug handfuls of mail from the bin and sorted it into piles on the worktable.  He stacked the piles on the metal cart in alphabetical order for insertion in the wall rack of pigeon hole mailbox slots at the end of the hall, an efficient arrangement for which he was infinitely grateful, as he would not have to deal with offices and in-baskets and their owners. 

He pushed the cart into the hall.  His knees were shaking.  He’d taken several steps before he realized there was no wall rack of mail slots at the end of the hall where Mueller had indicated.  Panicked, he ran around to the other end of the cart and pushed it back toward the office door.  And saw the mailboxes at the other end of the hall.

“Oh my God.”  Dennell looked around.  No one was there.  He wiped a wave of sweat from his brow and shoved the cart to the mail slots. 

It took him a nerve-wracking fifteen minutes to file the mail.  While he was working, two men arrived to pick up their mail.  He ducked his head and turned from them, busying himself at the cart.  The men fingered through the envelopes and walked away, all the time deep in the throes of mourning last evening’s Rangers’ debacle.  They never looked at him.  

Then he was back inside Mueller’s office, delivery cart empty.  All told, the mail job had taken him an hour.  He was running behind Mueller’s schedule by fifteen minutes.  His heart was pounding in his ears.  _Gotta calm down, Geo - no._  He thought about the smiling woman who’d bade him a good morning.  He thought about the men at the mail slots.  _They never noticed a thing.   You're Sam Mueller.  Now get on the ball._

Mueller’s next duty was to pick up, sort, and deliver the mountain of computer printouts generated during the night.  Dennell pictured the route through the building, rehearsed the access code, and, cart in hand, made his way to the computer room.  The security light above the keypad was a round, cherry red gumdrop.  His forefinger trembled as he typed in the code.  The door rewarded him with a sharp click, and the light turned into the most gratifyingly green gumdrop he'd ever seen.  He went in.

The printouts were where they were supposed to be, stacked on steel shelving.  It took six trips to ferry it all to Mueller’s office.  Neither of the two operators emerged from the glassed inner room with the spinning tape drives.  With every trip he gained confidence.  He even smiled at a couple of janitors as they ambled down the hall with a ladder and a box of fluorescent light tubes. 

He worked through the stacks of reports at the worktable, tearing them apart, sorting them.  He began to haul them out to the shelves next to the mail slots.  Anything undelivered at noon would have to wait, Mueller said, because at noon, come hell or high water, he went to the vending machines near the loading dock, purchased his lunch and took it back to his office to eat, taking thirty minutes for his break.   

He delivered the last of the reports at 11:45.  How could that be?  Mueller must take his good old time getting his work done.  _Thrush loafer!_   He tidied up the worktable.  Used the restroom.  At noon he went to the vending machines and took the food back to Mueller’s office.  The sandwich was dry and tasteless.  He threw it in the waste basket beside the desk.  His stomach was so shaky he wouldn’t have been able to eat anyway.  After lunch he had to take care of the paychecks.  Then came the afternoon print run, with the payroll and banking reports.  Growing sicker by the minute, Dennell watched the hands on the clock crawl toward 12:30.

He picked up the paychecks from the computer room.  The check stock was fan-folded into four cardboard cartons.  He signed the control log and took the boxes back to Muller’s office.  He emptied the first box, tore the checks apart, and packed them back in.  Sobered by the number of checks in just one box, he thought of all the people he passed on the sidewalk every day who might be watching the mail delivery for these checks. 

_Now multiply that by four._

He thought about the Thrush organization, the evil power brokers and decision makers who commandeered the crank that turns the world.  He thought of all the plain, ordinary people at its foundation, simply doing their jobs.  Working for a paycheck.  

The foundation of Thrush could be undermined one paycheck at a time - by a plain, ordinary mail clerk delivering month-end reports.  Waverly and the big hammers, the world banking authorities, would knock it over.  Mr. Waverly’s sales pitch had been much less grandiose. 

He worked rapidly, to gain time.  Simpson and the lab techs had estimated he would need an hour to photograph the reports.  He sealed the last carton forty minutes ahead of schedule.  _Mueller, you lazy dog!_    

It was too early to take the cartons out to the loading dock, so he stacked them next to the office door and set off to the computer room to get the afternoon printouts.  The shelves were as full as they’d been in the morning.  Each time he brought a load back to the workroom, he searched for the payroll and banking reports.  He found them in the third load and set them aside.  He hurried back and forth through the halls, completing the pick-up, trying not to look like he was rushing. 

He arranged the printouts into a wall on the worktable and stood facing the door with the paper barricade in front of him to conceal his activities.  He worked through half of the first stack of printouts and spread the reports out on the other side of the worktable so if someone entered Mueller’s office, they’d see he was hard at work. 

He photographed the Treasurer’s Banking Reconciliation Audit first, as instructed.  He positioned the face of his wrist watch camera over the fan folded pages and pressed the watch stem. Its tiny click sounded irrationally loud to his paranoid ears, and he forced himself to remain steady as he flipped open the next two pages. Click. Flip. Repeat.

 

_“Was it dangerous, darling?”  Her big blue eyes wide open, awed._

_She was a platinum blonde dame, painted into a black slinky something that was more of a dare than a dress, slit so high you could see all the way to the summit if the light was right._

_“Very dangerous.   As usual.”  His smile, blasé.  He unfolded himself alongside her on the bed.  Removed his glasses.   Reached over, dropped them on the bedside stand next to the champagne flutes.  He turned to her.  His gaze, suave.  He lowered a hand to her sultry thigh.  Ran small circles along its delicious length.  His fingers long, well manicured._

_“Did you have to shoot any bad guys?”  Her voice, smoky, breathless._

_’Bad guys’ doesn’t begin to describe them.”  He raised his head.  His chin, debonair.  “It was …Thrush.”_

_“Ooohhh, darling.”  Her legs parted as he explored his way upward._

_“And I didn’t need a gun, sweetheart.  All I needed was this.”  He held up the watch.  The band, brushed steel.  The face, white.  The hands, black.  The second hand clicked a resolute path around the dial from six to twelve.  From twelve to six.  From six to twelve –_

The voices in the hall hit him like a punch in the gut. 

_Stage fright is normal, his trainers had said. Breathe it, like air, and focus on your performance._   

He snapped the banking report closed, pulled a stack of reports forward, and began tearing through them, ready to play the role of Sam Mueller, mail clerk, to whatever audience the fates might provide.  It didn’t happen often, Mueller had said, but anyone could drop in for a casual word or two to break up the monotony.  Or - a manager, with a special request.  His stomach contracted, then flipped, sending a sour backwash up his throat.

Were the voices receding, or was it his imagination?  He grabbed an armful of reports and ran around the worktable to listen at the door.  He was sure of it, the voices had faded.  He peeked out the door and saw the two janitors, still lugging the ladder, retreating around the corner.  The carton of fluorescent tubes was gone.

“Jeezus Christ," he whispered.  He eased the door closed and sagged against the wall.  He stood there for a few seconds until his pulse slowed.  His eyes landed on the four cartons of paychecks.

_The payroll!_  He checked his watch.  _The truck should be here!_   He threw the boxes on the cart, hustled out to the service door by the loading dock, and checked outside.  _No truck!  I missed it!  What do I -_  

The security gate opened with a clank and the courier truck wheeled through.  He was so relieved, he nearly waved at the driver, but caught himself.  The guy signed for the boxes, and the checks were on their way to the postal station.

Dennell returned to Muller’s office and got back to work.  He opened the banking report to where he’d left off, checked the subminiature camera’s focus and position so the Thrush logo in the upper left corner would be inside the frame, and clicked.  His watch band slipped.  His wrists were sweating.

In the lab, when he’d fumbled with the watch on his first couple of tries, they’d chuckled and assured him taking the pictures would be a piece of cake.  They were right.  There were no technical difficulties, the camera was easy to use.  He only had to center the watch over each page and click.  What made it so hard was the fear.  Maybe that was what the bastards had been laughing about.

He finished the banking report and set it aside.  He hauled another stack of printouts forward, worked his way through most of it, and then started on the payroll report, photographing the first ten pages.  He closed it, hid it in plain sight on the work table and went back to separating printouts, pausing midway through each stack to photograph ten more pages of the payroll report.  He worked steadily.  He was not interrupted.  Everything went without a hitch.

He photographed the last page of the report.  The printouts were all separated, stacked into a new protective wall.  He glanced at the workroom door, hesitated, then took off the watch.  He popped its face open, removed the nickel-sized titanium canister, and examined it to assure himself the film was entirely inside and that the canister was sealed.

_You're being ridiculous.  Still_.

Foolproof, they’d reassured him.  What if some of the film doesn’t wind up inside, he’d asked.  It’s foolproof, they repeated.  But what if something breaks or sticks, or it’s not sealed?  The men in the white lab coats lost their smiles and told him to concentrate on improving his timing.  But Donald Simpson came down from the control room and straightened them out.  He needs to know, he'd said, and personally taught him to do an emergency trim and seal, then made him repeat it until he could do it in the dark, by feel alone, in fifteen seconds, with everyone in the lab shouting at him that he was too slow, they were going to catch him, he was going to be shot any second.  He was rattled out of his gourd at first.  Even dropped the watch.  But he kept at it and eventually didn’t even flinch when someone poked him in the back and yelled ‘Bang!’

But when the doorknob to Mueller’s office rattled, his training flew out the window.  He froze, eyes locked on the doorknob.

_They’ll put a bullet through my head in a second.  Or they’ll wire me to a battery in a suitcase in the basement and -_

His heart was exploding.  His vision swam. 

_Close it close the watch no just put it in your pocket no they’ll find it -_

The door opened.  A man, half-way through the door, a stunned look on his face.  “What the heck are you doing?   You’re gonna be dead if you –”

_Deaddeaddeaddead -_

“— don’t get a move on with those reports.”  The man checked his watch. “You’re running outa time.”

Dumbfounded, he stared at the man in the doorway.  _The computer room!  One of the operators._ He dry-swallowed the lump in his throat and croaked, “Busy day.” 

“Whoa.  Sammy.  You got a cold?  No wonder you’re dragging.”   

_A cold!_   Dennell coughed.  Put some phlegm action into it.

“Guess you’ll have to skip afternoon break.”

_Afternoon break!  For the love of -_   

He coughed again.  “That time already?  I better get a move on.”  But the guy was already gone. 

 

The tiny canister was fine.  No film sticking out.  It had automatically sealed tight, impervious to earth, wind, fire, water.  His hands shook as he fit the face of the watch back in place. 

He delivered the reports.  And finally, it was quitting time.  He donned his coat and walked outside with a string of others, everyone hurrying through the cold winter air to their cars, calling and waving good-night.  He’d been frightened as he photographed the reports.  But that fear was nothing compared to this.  This was the hardest part, when he was nearly free, saying goodnight to the smiling people, the evidence of his crime hanging on his wrist.  When he laid his eyes on his car it was all he could do to keep himself from running.

\----

 

"He should have checked in by now."  Solo felt Kuryakin’s eyes on him.  He faced his partner.  “What?”

“We should have called it off."

“Don’t look at me like that.  You heard me tell him he could call it off.”

“You said there was no shame in backing out.  Which naturally made him feel there _is_ shame in backing out.”

“What the - I did not try to manipulate him into going, Dr. Freud.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

Solo thought of meeting with Waverly, of going around with him about Dennell.  “I had concerns about using George.  But he did pull the wool over Thrush’s eyes once already.  He even had _us_ wondering whose side he was on for a moment there.  If he said he’s ready –”  

Kuryakin looked away. 

“ _What?”_

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

“I listened to George.  He said he’s ready.”  His voice, too curt, said it all.  _I should have listened to myself._  

\----

 

He’d done it.  He was driving away.  His right knee was bucking up and down in uncontrollable spasms. He remembered his daydream about the glamorous spy who gets the glamorous gal.

_Some spy._   _I’m an idiot with delusions of grandeur who managed to remember how to take pictures with a little watch_.

What kind of spy gets nothing more than a watch?  Not even a communicator pen, in case they caught him.  No tracker on the car, either, for the same reason.  Dennell remembered the way his intestines turned to water when the door knob rattled.  If some guy pressed a gun into his spine in real life, he’d probably soil himself.

The faint honk of a car horn snapped him back to attention.  He glanced in the rearview mirror.  A car was following him.  He’d noticed it earlier without really seeing it.  Blood roaring in his ears, he realized it had been behind him for several blocks. 

A _Thrush tail!_

His hands turned slick on the steering wheel.  The car maintained its distance behind him, but followed him another two blocks. 

_Evasive action!_

He jerked the wheel hard right and took the corner on two wheels.  He sped down the block, whipped around the next corner, another right, followed it with a left, and seeing nothing but open road, jammed his foot on the gas.  A car screeched to a stop, nearly sideswiping him.  He’d driven through a stop sign.  He kept going.

_Pay attention!  Don’t get in an accident!_

He checked the mirror regularly now.  The Thrush car was nowhere in sight.  He’d lost them. 

_That was too easy!  They’re calling for backup!  They’ll have the entire block around Headquarters surrounded!_

Dennell took the shortest route he could think of to his apartment.  He pulled to the curb but thought better of it and drove around the corner.  He snuck through the back yards and let himself into the rear entrance. 

He ran up the stairs.  Got inside and threw his coat on the couch.  The back of his shirt was soaked with sweat.  He took off his suit jacket and dropped it next to his coat.  He went to the telephone on the desk under the window and peeked through the venetian blinds.  The car that had been following him was creeping down the street.  His knees buckled.   _No no no no no -_ He ran to the bathroom and locked himself in.  

_You know what to do if you’re caught._   

He unlocked the bathroom door and ran to the window.  The car was slowing in front of his building.

H _urryhurryhurryhurry -_ He pulled the blue capsule from his suit coat pocket and stuck it on his tongue.  He ran back to the bathroom.  Locked the door.  Filled the sink glass with water and gulped it down.  He sat on the edge of the bathtub.  It didn’t take long.  The bathroom walls melted and ran to the floor.  _They won’t get a thing out of me!   T_ he floor melted and he sank into black quicksand.  

\----

 

The two men from Security strolled into Solo’s office. 

"Where's George?"  Solo asked.

"What do you mean?  Isn't he here?"  The man was dumbfounded. 

Waverly had relented and dispatched the two men from Security to the warehouse to keep an eye on Dennell during his return to Headquarters.  He’d left the parking lot, and they'd pulled in behind him a block later.  They’d honked at him, but he’d taken off like a bat out of hell.  They'd lost him somewhere between the warehouse and Headquarters. 

"We checked his apartment, but his car wasn't there.  So we figured he was playing it safe and took a roundabout route back to Headquarters."

"Well, he's not here.  How did you manage to lose him in the first place?”

"It wasn't our fault!  If Mr. Waverly had let us put a tracker on his car –”

"You shouldn't need a tracker.  You were right behind him."

"We got stuck behind a garbage truck, and by the time the jerk let us get around him –”

"I don't care if you got stuck behind a funeral procession, you should have –” 

Solo’s phone rang.

\----

 

He grabbed the receiver.  “Solo speaking.”

“Are you missing something, darling?”  Angelique’s voice, oozing honey. 

She said nothing more, and Solo knew she was waiting to see if he’d take the bait.  He listened to her light breath against the mouthpiece.  He pictured a fly drawn to honey.  Trapped in the honey.  Dead in the honey.  He wanted to quietly lower the telephone receiver and bury his head in his hands.

“Napoleon?  Are you there?”

He did not bother to wonder how she’d gotten past the public switchboard to reach Section II.  He pushed a smile into his voice.  “Angelique, how nice to hear from you.  Don’t tell me you found my Dick Tracy decoder ring.  I’ve been looking all over Headquarters for it.”

Silence, but for the humming of the connection over the line and a faint series of clicks.  U.N.C.L.E. security, recording the conversation.

After a few moments he sighed and said, “All right.  Let’s make a deal.”

She laughed.  “Oh, dear. How unlike you, spoiling our lovely foreplay with a premature –”

“Angelique.”  He said her name carefully.  He looked up at the two Security men.  Pointed at the door.  Shooed with his fingers.  “Just tell me what you want.”

“Meet me,” she said.  “We can discuss our… _positions_.”

“Cut the comedy.  Where and when?”

“The Beaumont.  Room 450.  In an hour.  I think I’ll order some champagne for —”

He hung up on her.

\----

 

Solo lowered the needle onto the record and waited a moment, listening to the small rustle behind him.   As Coltrane’s sultry notes rose through the room, he turned to her.

She stood in front of the sofa, curvy and inviting.  The silvery, body-hugging, ankle-length evening gown prevented her from planting her feet as far apart as a proper target shooter’s stance required, but considering the size of the room, it probably wasn’t a critical flaw.  She’d raised the gun and had it aimed and ready.  She’d waited for him to turn, he decided, out of vanity and overconfidence.  The eye of the barrel stared at him, unwavering in her outstretched arms.  She cocked the hammer.

“That’s such a cute little gun,” Solo said, and quick-stepped to his left when her finger twitched in the trigger guard.  The shot’s crack rang in his ears.  “Oops. You missed me.”

“You lucky bastard.”

“Not really.  You pull to the left.  You tend to put your finger too far inside the trigger.”

How would you know that?”

“From when you shot at me in Paris last year.”  He sighed regretfully.  “Ah, Paris.  That was such a lovely evening, until you had to go and spoil it like that.”

She bit her lower lip and frowned, concentrating. “Hold still.  This will only take a moment.”  She shifted the gun a touch to the right, re-cocked and pulled the trigger.  He didn’t twitch a muscle.  When the hammer clicked uselessly against the empty chamber, he put his left hand in his pants pocket, withdrew it, and offered its contents to her.

“Need these?”  Five small bullets.  “I don’t normally peek in a lady’s purse while she’s freshening up, but in your case, I thought I’d better made an exception.”

“You, you –”  She threw the gun at him and raced for the door.  He caught up with her in three long strides and grabbed her as she scrabbled at the door.

“You make catching bad guys fun,” he said, and pulled her backside to him.  She struggled and squirmed against him.  He turned her around, pinning her arms in place.  “Mmm, my mistake.  You’re definitely not a guy.  I stand corrected.”  He pushed harder against her.  “Standing corrected feels nice.”

“I hate you.”

“Say it like you mean it, at least,” he said, and leaned in to kiss her.

She turned her face away, jaw clenched, lips tight, eyes flashing anger.

He considered the expression on her face and stepped back.  “Now you’re hurting my feelings.”

“Why didn’t you take all the bullets?” she asked.

“That would have been too easy,” he said.  He kissed her, a fast peck on the lips.  “I wouldn’t want you to think I’m easy.  By the way,” he whispered in her ear, “I think I have you captured.”

She pouted.  “All right.  I give up.”  She relaxed into him, wrapped her arms around his neck.  She kissed him, deeply, sweetly.  And jabbed him in the back of the neck with the needle that popped from the oversized diamond ring on her finger. 

“Sorry, darling,” she said, leaning against the door, watching him fall.

\----

 

_Wind._   A gravel-paved voice said, “Get him in the car.”  

_Bending._   The gravelly voice said, “Take off his clothes.”

_Pulling.  Twisting._   He struggled against the hands tugging at him.  He opened his eyes. 

A man in the driver’s seat turned, his gun leveled at Solo.  In a gravel voice, he said, “Take off your clothes.”

Solo opened his mouth to protest.  Gravel cocked the gun’s hammer and said, “You think we don’t know you have a tracker on you?  Get going.” 

He shrugged out of his suit coat.  A man on the sidewalk reached in and grabbed it.

Gravel waggled his gun. “Speed it up, or we’ll help you.  And you’re not going to like it if we have to help you.”  The man on the sidewalk reached back into the car.

“No, I’ll manage myself, if you don’t mind,” Solo said.

Gravel smiled an ugly smile. “Good choice.” 

In short order, Solo’s clothing was off.  

“Tell them to take that stuff back to the shop,” ordered Gravel. 

The man gathered the pile of clothing and ran across the street to a waiting car, its rear window open. He shoved the bundle through the window.  With a squeal of tires, the car sped away.  The man ran back across the street. 

“Let’s go,” said Gravel.  The man pushed into the rear of the car and smacked a chloroformed handkerchief onto Solo’s nose and mouth.  He fell into a black vortex, and the world went out. 

\----

A hand slapped at his face.  Behind him, Gravel’s voice scraped its way into Solo's consciousness.  Solo found himself tied to a wooden office chair, his arms stretched behind the chair back and lashed together at the wrists.  He caught at the bonds with numbed fingers.  _Clothesline._  He gave the restraints a couple of unobtrusive tugs, felt the rope give a bit, and decided his captors were either too arrogant or too stupid to tie him properly.  _Solo, it’s your lucky day after all._   He estimated he would need little more than a minute to free himself.  But things would be much easier all around if the goon standing in front of him would put down the baseball bat.

He arched his head back to get Gravel in his sights.  “I don’t suppose your friend is on his way to a ball game.”  As he spoke, he twisted his wrists, using the base of his hands to stretch the opening in the rope.  Just a little more wiggle room would do the trick. 

Gravel scowled at him and said to the man with the bat, “Go.” 

The man with the bat drove its business end into Solo’s midsection.  He retched and crumpled forward. 

Gravel seized him and hauled him upright, yanking his head backward.   “Start talking.” 

Solo wheezed, “What’s the question?”

The man with the bat stepped back, turned sideways, and took a test swing.

“Wait –” Solo blurted, but the man with the bat ignored his plea.

It was a short inning.  Solo tried to tip the chair over, but Gravel had him clamped by the shoulders.  The bat connected with Solo’s left leg just below the knee.  He screamed at the explosion of pain.  A black curtain decorated by a constellation of tiny stars darkened his field of vision.  He shook his head to clear it. 

“Better lighten up,” Gravel was saying.  “We’re not supposed to kill him.  Just tenderize him a little until she gets here.” 

He closed his eyes.  ‘ _We’re not supposed to kill him.’  Good to know._ He let himself slip toward insensibility. A hand slapped him.  He kept his eyes closed. 

“Wake up.”  Another slap, harder. 

He cracked his eyes open, taking his time, wincing against the harsh glare of fluorescent ceiling lights.  Swallowed the pain and nausea.  Readied himself before they began in on him again. 

_Clump!_   _Clump!_   Heavy sounds, from the core of the building.  The lights snapped off.  In the abrupt blackness, he gave his restraints a vicious heave. 

From behind him, Gravel spat, “What the  –”  

He wrenched his hands free.  He lurched from the chair, spun, and threw his best schoolyard punch at Gravel’s voice.  His aim proved true, and his knuckles smashed into Gravel’s mouth, the skin slicing against sharp teeth.  Gravel dropped to the floor, taking the chair with him. 

A cigarette lighter flicked.  He turned toward the sound.  Another flick, and a blue flame sparked in the dark.  He threw himself at it, swinging, connecting once, twice, with the second Thrush man, and put him down.

Gravel groaned from the other side of the room.  Solo short-stepped toward the wall with outstretched arms.  He found it, and a moment later, the door.  He yanked it open and stepped into another shade of black.  

\----

He was in a long corridor.  At its end, a red exit sign glowed above a doorway.  He limped down the hallway to the door, pulled it open, and uttered an exasperated curse at the sight of a shadowy stairway, a steep climb to another door topped by another red exit sign.  Its dim light was sufficient to illuminate a notice stenciled on the door: ‘Fire Escape - For Emergency Only’.  _There’s no going back._ _I'd be a blind rat in a maze.  With a cat named Gravel._

He took the stairs two at a time, hauling at the railing to support his injured leg.  _Running upstairs to escape.  Cutter would have a stroke._ He was within an arm’s reach of the door when his leg gave way.  He stumbled, fell to his hands and knees on the stairs, and clamped his mouth against the fire-red pain shooting up his leg.  He held his breath, listening.  From the corridor below, footsteps.  One set, coming fast, testing doorknobs along the way. 

Solo clawed at the railing and scrambled to the door.  He pressed the crash bar, trying to minimize the noise, but as soon as the door cracked open, a blast of wind caught it, nearly ripping it free of his grasp.  He grabbed its outer edge with both hands, snaked through the opening and pushed his backside against it, closing it.  Night had arrived and with it, the snow, swirling and whipping in chaotic whorls against the dark sky, backlit by the ambient glow of the city.  Icy pellets of sleet stung his face.  

Two boxy air intake ducts stood sentry directly ahead of him in the center of the roof.  He loped to the larger one and ducked around it to get out of the wind.  His arms and chest burned from the cold.  He jammed his hands into his armpits for warmth.  He gulped at the frosty air, filling his starved lungs with ice crystals as he searched the foot-high ledge running along the roof’s edge for the fire escape.  There, to the left: two curved handle bars mounted atop the ledge.  He risked a peek back around the air duct.  The door, open.  A figure, blacker than the surrounding night, stood in the rectangle of the doorway, then stepped out.  

He took off in a running crouch for the fire escape.  He only needed a few seconds.  Footsteps crunched behind him.  He looked back.  The man was heading toward the air ducts.  Jagged rooftop gravel bit into the bottoms of his feet.  A razor-sharp blade pierced the sole of his right foot and stuck in deep.  He jerked his foot up and fell.  He crawled to the ledge.  The sharp gravel cut into his knees and stuck, scraping them raw.   

At the ledge, he ignored the threatening wobble as he put his weight on the handle bars and thrust his good leg down in blind faith that the ladder would hold.  His foot landed on a rung.  With trembling arms, he maneuvered his bad leg down to the next rung.  The ladder creaked and swayed, and his left leg slipped, plunging through the framework.  He managed to wedge his right knee onto a rung, breaking his fall.  He got a good grip on the ladder and hung suspended, half on and half off, thanking his lucky stars for escaping what would have been an excruciating blow to his manhood.  He wished they hadn’t taken his underwear.  It wouldn’t have provided any protection, he thought resentfully, but still, a man deserved a little dignity. 

Rapid footsteps crunched across the roof.  Solo looked up to see the man from the doorway racing at him.  He thrashed on the ladder, trying to extricate his trapped leg, but before he could free himself, a pair of iron hands caught his upper right arm and hauled him up.  He flailed against the man’s grip, but he’d finally run out of steam and was pulled up from the ladder, horsed away from the roof’s edge, and summarily dropped to the  roof where he flopped on his stomach like a caught trout.  He allowed himself to rest for an inglorious moment or two and then rolled onto his back to face his captor. 

The man, ski-masked and clad from head to toe in black, was bent at the waist, his hands braced on his knees, breathing hard.  One hand held a gun.  The cold wind whistled and whipped at his knee-length overcoat.  The man yanked off the ski mask.  His fair hair gleamed faintly against the inky sky. 

Solo stifled a sigh of relief.  “The ski-mask is a little overdramatic.” 

Kuryakin removed his coat and dropped it onto Solo.  “I hardly think you’re in a position to judge.” 

“I take it you’re responsible for the lights going out?”

“I thought it added a gratifying element of surprise.”

“More surprising than simply bursting in and shooting the place up?”

Kuryakin knelt beside Solo and helped him get his arms into the coat sleeves.  “I didn’t know how many Thrush were nesting in there.” 

“Two.  You could have warned me it was you up here.”

“That would have been imprudent.  I didn’t know if you had unwelcome company.”

"If you would have followed me down the ladder we could be gone by now.”

“It appeared you were falling.”

“I slipped.  I had a knee up,” Solo objected, fumbling at the coat’s buttons.

"In the interest of accuracy, I believe I rushed to your aid in the face of imminent danger, namely a Thrush bullet in the back, and prevented you from falling to your death.”  Kuryakin pushed Solo’s numbed hands aside.

“A Thrush bullet?”  Solo checked the doorway.  Empty.  For now.  “You didn’t get them?”

“I may have missed one of them.”  Kuryakin pushed buttons through the buttonholes.  “You failed to subdue either of them, I might add.”

“I had them both down, but one was already moving before I made it to the door.  I didn’t want to get caught again, so I ran for it.”

“Naked.  Unarmed.  Stumbling around on a roof in the dark.”

“But I _was not_ falling.”

Kuryakin decided three buttons were enough.  “Could you manage at least a crumb of gratitude?”

“Well, I _am_ a little cold.”  Solo stuffed his hands into the coat’s pockets.  “Thanks.”

Standing, brushing bits of gravel from his knees, Kuryakin squeezed out a lemony “You’re welcome.   Where _are_ your clothes, by the way?”

“I donated them to an unworthy cause.”

“If I did miss one of our feathered friends down there, he’s probably called for reinforcements.”  Kuryakin hooked one of Solo’s elbows and pulled him up.  “Come on.  We’ve got to get off this roof.”

“Stop.  There’s something stuck in my foot.”  Solo leaned on Kuryakin and lifted his injured foot.  He tried to get a look at the bottom, but lost his balance.  

“Hold still.”  Kuryakin knelt and took Solo’s foot in both hands, feeling the bottom.  “It’s a piece of glass,” he said, and yanked it out.

“ _Ow._   That really hurt.”

Kuryakin held the glass up for Solo’s inspection, then tossed it away.  “Let’s go.”  They hobbled to the edge of the roof and peered down.  A wave of vertigo washed over Solo, and he swayed outward. Kuryakin seized Solo and pulled him back.  “Time is of the essence, Napoleon, but flying down is not an option.”

“It’s either the ladder,” Solo said, “or back down through the building.”  Kuryakin shot a look back at the darkened doorway, and without comment tightened his grip around Solo’s waist, guiding him as he bent to grasp the fire escape railing.  

Behind them, a gun blasted, and they threw themselves flat at the edge of the roof.  Kuryakin, gun drawn, slithered around to face the doorway and fired two answering shots.  The gunman went down with a guttural cry and lay silent.  They watched the motionless form.

“What do you think?”  Kuryakin asked in a low voice.  “Possum?”

Solo tossed a gravel stone toward the gunman.  There was no response.

Kuryakin said, “I could shoot him again.”

Solo frowned.  “It doesn’t seem sporting, considering he’s not moving.” 

They ticked off thirty seconds and rose to a cautious crouch.  A muzzle flared from the Thrush man's position.  As the gunshot split the air, Kuryakin bleated in surprise and toppled against Solo, pitching them backward over the roof’s low ledge.

Solo plummeted with no hint of grace, howling into the wind, his arms grabbing at empty air, his coat flapping like great bat wings.  Kuryakin dropped without a sound. 

Snow-covered juniper bushes lined the side of the building.  Solo crashed through the hedge, hit the ground hard and knocked the air from his lungs.  He lay wedged between the bushes and the foundation of the building, gasping at the frigid air in painful spasms.  His face burned where the frozen branches had slashed it.  His left leg throbbed.  The gash on the bottom of his foot was wet with cold blood.  He heaved himself upright, pushed the branches aside, and shoved his way out.  The side of the building was shrouded in near-darkness.

Kuryakin, a thin black scarecrow, lay face-down in the snow.  Solo ran to him and knelt beside him.  He rolled Kuryakin over, swept the snow from the shuttered face.  “I thought you said flying wasn’t an option.”  

Kuryakin did not move.  Solo pressed his fingers into Kuryakin’s neck, but they were too numb to detect any sign of a pulse.  He put a hand over Kuryakin’s mouth and nose and felt a whisper of warmth.  Relieved, he slapped lightly at Kuryakin’s face.  “Illya, wake up.”

His breathing still labored, Solo looked around.  No sign of the Thrush man on the roof.  No one had emerged from the building.  He rose to his feet and scanned the street.  No traffic.  The neighboring buildings were dark, the street deserted.  He wondered where the Thrush car was parked.  For that matter – he rummaged in Kuryakin’s coat.  Nothing.  He squatted, patted Kuryakin’s trouser pockets and found a set of car keys.  He slapped Kuryakin’s cheeks again.  “Where’s the car?  _Come on, Illya!_ ”

He patted Kuryakin’s shirt pocket.  “Where’s your communicator?”  He pawed at the snow around Kuryakin’s body.  _Needle in a haystack_.  He ran to the broken place in the hedge and scraped at the ground underneath and came up empty.  Returning to Kuryakin, he took another look around and spotted Kuryakin’s gun half-buried in the snow a few feet away.  He scooped it up and shoved it into the coat.

Hoisting Kuryakin by the armpits, he duck-walked backward to the rear of the building.  The Thrush car was parked next to the building’s rear door.  He hauled Kuryakin to the car and lowered him to the pavement next to the driver’s door.  He tried the handle.  It was locked.  He ran around the car, trying the other doors.  All were locked.  He scanned the parking lot for a rock, a brick, something heavy enough to break the window of the car.  If he could get in, he could hot-wire it.  He shoved his hands into the coat to warm them up and felt Kuryakin’s gun.

He sprinted to the driver’s side of the car, removing the clip as he ran, pocketing it.  He racked the gun, caught the bullet as it fell from the chamber, and pocketed it as well.  He glanced down at his unconscious partner.  

“I’m glad you’re not awake to see this.”  He swung hard and struck the driver’s window with the butt of the gun, but he didn't have it lined up, and instead of striking the window straight on, the gun glanced sideways against the slick glass.  The impact sent a buzzing shockwave down his forearm, and he dropped the gun.  He picked it up, wrapped both hands tightly around the gun barrel, took a firm stance and raised it for another try.

“Have you lost your mind?”  Kuryakin was pushing himself to a sitting position.   

He lowered the gun and gave Kuryakin a hand up.  “Desperate times call for desperate measures.  You okay?”  

Kuryakin scowled at Solo.  “If by some infinitesimal chance my weapon is still functional in spite of your valiant efforts to ruin it, when we get back to headquarters, remind me to shoot you.”  Kuryakin trudged away along the rear of the building.

“You’re definitely okay.  By the way, I'm okay, too.” Solo said to Kuryakin’s back.  "In case you were wondering."

"You’re bare-foot, and it's freezing out here.  Hurry up."

They rounded the corner of the building and were hit by a blast of icy air.  At the far end of the access driveway, Kuryakin’s car stood near the street.   Solo grinned against the wind, the snow, the cold, the pain, and ran for it. 

\----

Waverly looked up from the dossier he’d been studying.  He took in Solo’s scraped face and the bare legs protruding from Kuryakin’s coat.  Both knees were bleeding and dirty.  Bits of gravel had fused with the opened skin.  The left shin bore a purpled hematoma the size of a halved grapefruit.  Solo wished he’d had time to make himself presentable, but he’d been ordered to Waverly’s office.  He stole a surreptitious glance down.  Kuryakin’s coat was dripping melted snow onto Waverly’s pristinely waxed floor.  The coat’s owner had been hustled off to medical.

"No worse for the wear, Mr. Solo?"   

Del Floria had handed Solo a pair of socks as he and Kuryakin passed through the dry cleaner’s entrance into headquarters.  The sock shielding his injured foot was wet on the bottom.  He lifted his foot.  Blood on the floor.  He put his foot back down.  

"I'm fine, thank you, sir." 

Waverly closed the dossier with an irritated snap.  “How could you allow yourself to fall for that woman’s tricks?  Waverly tossed the dossier onto his desk.  “I expected more from you, Mr. Solo.  Thanks to your incompetence, Mr. Dennell is still in Thrush’s hands.” 

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Waverly pursed his lips and thought for a few moments.  “We’ll proceed as planned.  Prepare for the raids.  Stand by, until we find Dennell.  One way or the other.”

Waverly turned away from Solo, busying himself at his console.  “Report to medical.”

“Yes, sir.”  Solo turned to leave. 

Waverly’s voice followed him through the opening doors.  “You're leaving tracks on the floor.  Tell Miss Rogers to call maintenance.”  The doors slid closed.   

_I expected more of you, Mr. Solo._   Waverly’s reproach, a spin cycle in his brain.  No acknowledgement of what he’d endured.  The injuries.  The pain.  The fall.  The fear.  After all that - _Here I am, looking like a clown, painting the floor red._  

He was halfway to Medical when his communicator went off.  It was Lisa Rogers.  “Napoleon?  There’s a call for you.  It’s Angelique.”

He did an about face.  He walked.  Then he ran.

\----

 

He grabbed the receiver. “Solo speaking.”

“Don’t be angry.”

“I think I have the right.”

"Can you blame a girl for trying to catch her favorite spy?”

“What do you want, Angelique?  And don’t give me any more lies.”

“Don’t be like that.  Let’s start over.  Do you remember the question?  Oh, yes - are you missing something?” 

“Where and when?”  He hated himself for playing her game.  But he was out of moves.

“Just as before, Napoleon.  The Beaumont.”

“No tricks?”

“Just treats.  I promise to play nice this time.”

\----

“Choose something romantic, won’t you?  I had some fresh, cold champagne brought up.  I’ll pour.”

This time, he chose Nat King Cole.  This time, when he turned to her, his U.N.C.L.E. Special was out.  She saw it and froze, her champagne glass halfway to her mouth. 

She threw the glass at him and made a run for the door.  He caught her by an arm as she went past him. 

“You really need to stop throwing things at me,” he said.  She groaned and stood still.  He pocketed his gun and pulled out his communicator.  “Open Channel D.”

The moment she saw the silver pen, she yanked her arm hard, trying to free herself.  But he’d kept a tight grip on her, and she twisted against him in vain.  She stomped a spiked heel onto the top of his right foot.  He yelped in pain, lost his grip on her, and she pulled free.  In an instant, she had the door open, flying into the hall.

Illya Kuryakin stood there, pointing his U.N.C.L.E. Special at her.  She skidded to a halt, nearly tumbling into him, but Kuryakin took a smooth step backward.

“Going somewhere?” he asked mildly.  Angelique threw herself at him. 

Solo grabbed her.  “Stop it,” he said.

She screamed and tried to nail her heel into Solo’s foot again.  Kuryakin delivered a karate chop to the base of her neck.  Her eyes flew open in surprise, and she went limp.  Solo staggered under the sudden weight and dragged her inside the room.  “That was a bit much, don’t you think?”

“I hate it when she squawks like that.  It’s so unbecoming.”  Kuryakin holstered his weapon and picked Angelique up by the ankles.  Together, they carried her to the bed. 

“Mr. Solo?  Are you there?”  A tinny Mr. Waverly’s voice spoke from somewhere on the floor.

Solo retrieved his pen.  “Here, sir.  Sorry for the delay.  We had to temporarily clip our little birdie’s wings.  She tried pre-empting the negotiations.”

“Get that woman to take you to Mr. Dennell.  She can trade her own freedom for his release.  If she refuses to cooperate, bring her in.”

Kuryakin stepped near Solo’s communicator.  “And send a transport van to the hotel.  A couple of her henchmen are taking a nap in the fourth floor maintenance closet.”  

“I’ll see to it.” Waverly cut the connection.

Kuryakin looked at Angelique.  She was beginning to stir.  “I should have requested animal control. The vermin they allow in this place are a disgrace.”  

She opened her eyes and scowled at Kuryakin.  “I heard that.  And I heard your Mr. Waverly’s bargain.  I accept.”

They led Angelique out of the hotel room.  She stopped, pulling away.  “I’ll just get my wrap and my purse,” she said.

“Oh, no you don’t,” said Solo.  “Watch her, Illya.”  He went back inside the room.

Angelique turned to Kuryakin.  “Three is a crowd.  No one asked you to tag along on our date.”

“Don’t be snippy, Angelique.  You’re miffed because we caught you off guard.”

“Don’t look so smug,” she snapped.  “We wouldn’t be here if we hadn’t caught your man in the first place.  And he is suffering for it, let me assure you.”

Kuryakin stiffened, thinking of what Dennell might be going through.

“What’s this? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re actually feeling a twinge of concern for him.”  Angelique brushed a finger along the top of Kuryakin’s cheekbone.  He jerked away.  She rubbed her finger and thumb together.  “Dry as a bone, of course.”  She smiled, a cat at the cream bottle, and touched his cheek again.  He took a sharp breath but did not move.  “One of these days, Mr. Kuryakin, I’ll catch _you_ off guard.  As much fun as it will be to kill you, I think I shall shed a tear for you.”

“Let me assure _you_ , madam –”

“It’s mademoiselle.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a job description.”

“How dare you.”  She tried to slap him. 

Kuryakin swatted her hand away.  “When _I_ kill _you_ , no one will shed a tear for you.  I imagine the universe will heave a collective sigh of relief that you are gone.” 

Her face hardened, the taunting no longer a game.  He tensed, watching her eyes darkening, the two spots of red forming high on her cheeks, strawberries, crushed.  He’d cut her more deeply than he’d expected.  She slapped at him again, hard.  He let her.  He saw it coming and took it.  Her diamond ring raked his cheekbone.  He swiped at his face, glanced at his fingers. Blood. 

“Don’t worry,” she said.  “It’s just a ring.  This time.”

Behind them, the hotel room door opened.  Solo stepped out.  He took in Kuryakin’s stony look, the cut under his eye, Angelique’s brittle face.  “How many times do I have to tell you two to play nice?”  Neither one responded.   He wedged himself between them and turned to Angelique.  “Take us to Dennell.  Now.”

Angelique hesitated.  “There’s this one teensy thing –”  Kuryakin made a derisive noise.  She slowly turned to him and studied him for a moment.  “Never mind.” 

In the elevator, no one spoke.  When the doors slid open, they crossed the lobby and walked out to the street to Solo’s car.

“You might want to call for an ambulance.”  Under her breath, she added, “If it’s not too late.”  

Behind her, Kuryakin said, “If he’s dead, there will be two graves – one for him and one for you.”

She turned to him, one eyebrow arched. “You twist the meaning of the adage, Mr. Kuryakin.  What we did was not revenge.  It was strictly business.”

Kuryakin replied, “It will be _his_ revenge.  And I will make sure he gets it.”

\---- 

 

They pulled up in front of a post-war bungalow on a chestnut-lined street.  Angelique led them to the front door. 

Behind her, Solo asked, “What is this place?”  

“Just a little place we keep for special occasions.”  She unlocked the door and said, “Surprise.”

In the center of the living room sat a ginger-haired young man, bound to a metal framed kitchen chair.  His head dropped crookedly to the side, his neck bent at an unnatural angle.   

“Oh, dear,” said Angelique. 

Solo strode over to the dead man.  “Who is this?”

“Robert Furst,” said Kuryakin.

“ _Robert Furst_?”  Solo fought for sanity.  He turned to Angelique.  “What the – where’s George Dennell?”  

“I must admit, I’ve been wondering that myself.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had Furst when you telephoned?”

“I assumed you knew who I was talking about.”

“Why didn’t you tell us at the hotel that you didn’t have Dennell?”

“I was going to, but Mr. Kuryakin was so rude, I decided not to.  As for this one—”  She joined Solo in front of Furst.  “We discovered some surveillance footage taken a few days ago of a car lurking outside one of our facilities.  We traced his license plates.”  She shrugged.  “He blathered on and on, claiming he was trying out his camera.  He was such a tiresome little man, I just had to call you to see what he was worth to you.  I had a sneaking suspicion my men would be a little too hard on him before we could make our trade.”

At the smirk in her voice, Solo twisted around and grabbed her.  She skipped away, but he caught her dress by the slit up the back.  She tripped, and the seam ripped.  With a coarse cry, she fell to the floor, landing face up.  Solo dropped to his knees and straddled her.  She reared against him, screeching at him with each thrust.  He wanted to slap the daylights out of her.  

“Shut up,” he growled. 

She snarled at him in a fit of rage, spittle flying from her mouth, hitting his face.   A wave of black flooded his vision.  He pulled his gun, pressed its barrel to her throat and gritted, “ _I said, shut up_.”

Her eyes went wide and she stilled.  He slid the safety off, the snick loud in the abruptly silent air. 

“Napoleon.”  Kuryakin’s voice came at him through the blood hammering in his eardrums. 

He looked up.  Two Thrush men, their guns trained on Kuryakin.  _Her men._   

“I’ll shoot her,” said Solo, “if one of you makes a move.  Any move at all.”   

Angelique must have believed the determination in his eyes.  She told her men, “Put away your guns.”  

As the men holstered their weapons, Kuryakin leveled his gun at them and motioned to the couch.  “Sit down.”  They sat.  Kuryakin shot the first one. 

“Hey!”  The second man raised his arms.  “Don’t –”  

Kuryakin shot him.

Angelique spoke quietly.  “You have my solemn vow, Mr. Kuryakin.  I will see you in hell.”

Kuryakin turned on her.  “Spare us the melodrama.  I used sleep darts.  By the time we’re finished interrogating them, they’ll wish I had used bullets.”  He pulled out his communicator.  “I’d better call Headquarters.  Mr. Waverly is going to be very unhappy.”   

Solo rose, keeping his gun on Angelique.  “I’m afraid this has very real bullets.”  He watched her struggle to her feet. 

“Where are your manners?  A lady shouldn’t have to ask for assistance.”

“There’s no lady in this room.”

“Why, Napoleon, you look so upset.  It doesn’t suit you.  You know as well as I do this is all just part of the –”

He lifted his hand in a stop sign.  “Don’t.  Don’t say it’s a game.”  He turned her around to make her look at Furst.  “This man was not a pawn on a chess board, or a joker in a deck of cards.  He was an office worker.   He didn’t know the first thing about –”        

“Don’t act so righteous.  He had a camera.  He worked for U.N.C.L.E.”   

Kuryakin interrupted them.  “Security just reported in.  They’ve found Dennell.”

Solo whirled around.  “Where?”

“Mr. Waverly sent them back to Dennell’s apartment and –”

Angelique gave Solo a fierce shove in the back, propelling him into Kuryakin.  As they stumbled into each other, Angelique ran into the kitchen.  A door slammed.  Kuryakin started after her.

“Let her go,” said Solo.   He went to Furst and gently untied him.

 ----

_“What is your name?”_

_“My name is  -  Sam Mueller.”_

Solo paced the observation room, ignoring the coffee Kuryakin had brought for him.  From the speakers came tiny, busy sounds: scratches, clicks, and snaps of pens on clipboards, dials on monitors, electrodes being removed.  There were no more words, no more calm, empty responses to the psychiatrist’s inquiries.  Kuryakin watched Solo’s reflection pace in the glass.  He leaned over and pressed a button on a panel next to the window, cutting the sound off.

“Leave it on.” 

“There’s nothing more to hear, Napoleon.”

“It’s been a week.  He doesn’t have a clue who he is.  He still thinks he’s Mueller.”

“Dr. Theobald said he’s doing quite well, all things considered.  He’ll be all right.  It’s a matter of time.”

“He’d better be.”  Solo approached the window and stared down at the still form lying on the examination table.  “Why did he go to his apartment?  Why the _hell_ did he take Capsule B?”

“It’s what he was supposed to do if he got caught.”

“He must have panicked.  He didn’t recognize the escort Mr. Waverly sent.  They even honked their horn at him.”

“He must have thought he was being pursued by Thrush.”  

Solo looked at Kuryakin.  “You were right, Illya.  I should have talked him out of going.”

“What would you have said to him?  He was more than willing.”

“When did you do the about-face?  As I recall, you wanted to call the thing off.”

“It was his decision.  He knew what he was getting into.” 

Solo turned back to the window.  The doctor had his head buried in his notes.  An attendant pulled the IV line from Dennell and helped him sit.  “He had his head in the clouds,” he said, watching Dennell.  “His face was shining with it.  I wanted to tell him about what’s behind the curtain.  About being at the mercy of dumb luck.  About running around naked in freezing weather.  About falling off roofs.”

“Death is patiently waiting for every one of us to fall off a roof,” said Kuryakin.   “George knew that.  He chose to go in spite of it.  You heard him.  He said, ‘I have to help get these guys.’”

What was it about Section Two that caused otherwise intelligent desk men to push aside their papers and pencils and wade into the fray?  Solo thought about Furst and Dennell.  They had stepped into danger for reasons of their own.  They had offered their safety, their sanity, their lives.

Kuryakin turned away from the window.  “Look at what he accomplished.  Thrush has its tail between its legs after the bank seizures and arrests.”  

Solo thought of the Sam Muellers of the world.  Of doorbells ringing in the middle of the night, of faces in half-opened doors.  Some confused, some half-knowing, making a fast turn, pushing against a door that would not be closed.  

_Don’t be too sympathetic.  They are Thrush_.

\----

They’d waited until March, when the hole could be dug.  The mourners, three in number, had arrived in a station wagon - Furst’s mother and her two sisters, similarly sixtyish, short, and lumpy in no-nonsense winter coats.  They wore their grey hair the same way, in buns at the nape of the neck, under round black hats pinned in place with long, black hatpins.  Now they were gone.  The minister, having said his piece, was chatting to the two men who’d leaned their shovels against a tree, waiting to shovel the dirt back.  

The place was barely a rise in the flat farmland, not more than an acre, delimited by a rusty wire fence, the weathered posts half concealed by wintered, brown sheaves of untrimmed grasses.  Tombstones, faded and pitted by weather and time, wandered in forlorn rows down the little hillside toward a small pond.

The chapel was little more than a room with two benches facing a plain wooden altar whose surface was bare save for a cracked and faded three foot tall Virgin Mary and a disheveled array of votives, the scarlet and cobalt glass blurred and blackened, blue like Mary’s flowing robe, red like the scarlet blood flowing from the mouth of the snake crushed under her foot.

Solo went inside and walked to the wooden railing in front of the altar.  He put a folded dollar bill in the metal coin box nailed to the railing and took two candles from the box on the kneeler.  He went to the altar, found two burned-down votive cups, dropped the candles in, and lit them.  The candles flickered, as though catching the whispers of a century of novenas, their light too feeble to illuminate the spidery tangle of grimy crutches and braces leaning in the shadows behind the altar, left behind, he supposed, by pilgrims whose prayers had been answered.  He didn't pray.

He wondered if Furst had prayed in the moments before his death.  What thoughts had come to him as he sat roped to the kitchen chair?  No sky to fill his eyes.  No friend to soothe him.  The last sound, his neck bones cracking.

He watched the candles burn for a while.  Then he rose and walked through the narrow door of the cool, dark chapel into the cold, grey morning, and followed the narrow path next to the faded stones, past the fresh mound of dirt. 

What Robert Furst, on a lark, had set in motion, ended here, in stillness, in silence.  Not much time would pass before no one knew Furst had ever existed.

_Robert Furst.  I didn’t even know who you were.  Did you imagine what you set in motion, what we accomplished because of you?_

He walked down the gentle slope to the rickety bench beneath two aged willow trees and stood behind Kuryakin, who sat, tossing stones into the center of the pond.  The stones arced through the grey morning air and made wet, plinking sounds as they struck the grey water.  The tiny waves travelled in widening circles until they slowed, flattened, and disappeared.

\----

 

**The End**


End file.
